


A Second Bouquet

by NAMINEM



Series: A Second Encounter [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Definitely not a bromance anymore, Fluff, M/M, Modern, Population these two losers, Valentine's Day, We're in the center of Gay Town now, but not exactly an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 06:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10183223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NAMINEM/pseuds/NAMINEM
Summary: It has been decades since Sebastian Michaelis was the Phantomhive butler and almost just as long since his last contract. So to occupy his extra time, he has taken to wandering the streets of London and observing its residents for his own amusement. For him, this day in February is no different. Or, at least, that is until his ally, William T. Spears, sends him on a certain errand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to something I wrote a couple years ago: [A Second Encounter.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4553553/chapters/10365450)
> 
> You can probably still enjoy this without knowledge of _A Second Enounter_ (I try to explain anything that's important to this plot in the story), but _A Second Encounter_ does provide some helpful information and context, which might enrich the experience. Do what you will with that information lol
> 
> This is something I wrote for the February Challenge over at [KuroshitsujiFanfics on deviantArt](http://kuroshitsujifanfics.deviantart.com/). The prompt was "Valentine's Day" but I decided to work with my OTP instead of the suggested pairing because I couldn't resist the fluff. It was too powerful. Lol
> 
> Obviously, this story is totally late for Valentine’s Day, but it’s not too late for the challenge, so I’m good with that. >:3c
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!

There is a touch of fog settling over London on this busy February morning. Cars rumble along the streets that were once cobblestone, expelling exhaust into the already-clouded air as they pass by. Those travelling without vehicles adorn themselves in coats and scarves and tread briskly between pavements, trying vehemently to get somewhere they’re currently not.

I suppose from an outside perspective, I am one of these ambitious walkers. After all, I am dressed as they are and move among them at the streets’ edges. But, of course, _I_ know that I am quite a separate being. For one, I have nowhere in particular to be; I wander without reason. And for another, I am not even of their kind, despite looking so similar.

Specifically, I am not human.

Fancy that.

I’ve existed for centuries—thousands of years, in fact—and yet I still find it amusing how deceptive appearances can be. So deceptive are they that humans are not even aware of a demon walking among them.

I almost chuckle aloud at the thought.

Today, as I have done many days in the past, I stroll through this modern London, my only aim to watch the mortals scurry between checkmarks on their to-do lists.

That is, at least, until my mobile phone emits a soft chime from my coat pocket.

Already, I know who it is. I only have one contact—one purpose for having this device.

Retrieving my phone, I open the new text with a few quick taps to the touch-sensitive screen.

William’s text reads as follows:

_Sebastian,_

_Buy more coffee while you’re out._

The phone chimes again just as I finish reading.

_Beans not grounds._

A small smile reaches my lips.

Once again, my long-time ally has managed to send me a most considerate and eloquent message. Who could have thought that William T. Spears, Supervisor of the Collections Division of London’s Grim Reapers, would be a specialist in writing immaculate texts and underusing the word “please”? To be truthful, though, these strange qualities of his are what I find so interesting about him. 

Well, that and the rate at which he has been going through coffee of late. It seems that the modern version of the drink has rather piqued his interest.

I shake my head in amusement at the thought and return my phone to my pocket. Who am I to deny him his simple pleasures? Besides which, it has been a long time since I’ve been told to run an errand; perhaps it will be entertaining.

When William gives the vague direction of “coffee,” I know, of course, he refers to a specific brand that he has come to favor. I have accompanied him to the shop in London from which he purchases his coffee several times, so I know where it is.

_The Daily Grind_ is a quaint, little coffee shop nestled within a small hub of other stores just outside of Central London. Mr. Spears, being as pretentious as he is, has always preferred lesser-known businesses over the big name brands.

I push open the shop door. A small bell hanging above me jingles in the warm, richly scented air, announcing my presence to the baristas and the other patrons.

And the normally quiet-colored interior greets me with a surprising amount of pink and red.  
The tables have been decorated alternatingly in these colors in the way of small tablecloths; they do not cover the wood surfaces completely and thus seem to be accents more than anything. The staff, too, seems to be involved in this change, as a good percentage of them are wearing some form of red: shirts, trousers, vests, scarves… Yet even this did not appear to be enough for them because paper chains of white, pink, and red hearts also festoon the windows and the front counter.

How peculiar. Is there some sort of occasion? (Humans have such a ridiculous plethora of holidays and celebrations—there must be something going on, surely.)

Shaking myself from the distraction of the décor, I manage to move forward, and my gaze falls upon the chalkboard that displays the menu. Today, there is a new addition to the top of the board. Surrounded in pink and red hearts are the words:

_Valentine’s Day discount: buy one coffee, get one free!_

Ah, yes, of course. Valentine’s Day. I believe I am somewhat familiar with this one.

From the bits and pieces I have heard over the years, the holiday has evolved from a day about sacrifice and faith to a day drowning in romance and commercialism. Officially, it is a time to honor a martyr known as Saint Valentine… But there is debate between scholars over which martyr-named-Valentine it is meant to be. Is it a man who performed weddings for lovers against the order of his emperor? A man who healed the daughter of his jailor? A man who died in Africa and by no recorded accounts did anything else? Or another man entirely? No one quite knows who they are celebrating anymore or for what reason. The real story has been weathered and embellished by time, and it is difficult to say what is true and what isn’t.

But none of it really matters, anyway, because the general populace celebrates this holiday of love without much thought or care for the reason behind it.

Humans are strange. That much has always been true. But really, I am so accustomed to it at this point that I find it rather charming.

The voice of a young barista behind the counter brings me back to the task at hand. “Good morning,” she chirps. “How can I help you?”

That’s right. Have I almost forgotten my purpose already? I am not here to consider human existence, despite how intriguing it can be; I am on a mission—to purchase coffee for my ally.

Looking into the young woman’s eyes, I put on a pleasant smile. “Hello there. I’ll have a bag of your classic dark roast, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The barista’s cheeks go a bit pink and she averts her gaze. “Ah, o-of course. Right away, sir!”

She fetches a bag from the shelf behind her and sets it before me on the counter with a shy smile and a declaration of the price.

Once the transaction is complete and I have my objective in tow, I set a course for the door, but then amongst the regular chatter of customers, I hear a silvery giggle from the other side of the room.

I stop despite myself.

I am sure it is nothing significant, and yet I still turn toward the source of the sound.

Call it curiosity.

On the other side of the room, at a table by the wall, is a couple. A man and a woman. From opposite sides of the table, they are leaning in, holding hands and mooning at each other.

I can’t help the huff of amusement that escapes my mouth.

How quaint. This holiday surely does have an effect on lovers, doesn’t it?

Becoming aware of a small weight in my hand, I recall the bag of coffee I’m holding. My gaze settles upon it for a moment, and a strange, whimsical thought comes to be. I look back at the couple.

I wonder what the proud and proper William T. Spears would be like in a situation like this: a large grin on his face, a light in his eyes, and in a state of such enamor that he doesn’t even notice the annoyed stares other customers are throwing his way.

I chuckle to myself. What a ridiculous image! I turn myself back in the direction of the door but stop short again. Two simple words have slipped cunningly into my mind and have taken hold of me—paralyzed me:

_And yet._

What a ridiculous image _and yet…_

An alluring one.

I swallow thickly.

I fight to recapture my senses and get myself walking again. Like before, the bell jingles as I open the door, but this time it announces my uneasy exit. When I take to the pavements, my thoughts reclaim ownership of my mind—even stronger now that I have accomplished my only task and thus have nothing else to occupy it.

Those two humans—despite their foolish, love-struck gazes and stupid smiles—have thrown my own feelings into sharp relief.

And hell, it appears that I am no better than they are.

I begin to reflect on the past few weeks—days in which I’ve found my gaze lingering on William long after he has looked away—moments that our fingers brush or we move too close and I cease thinking—times in which a simple change in his tone or the tilt of his head makes me freeze.

How long has this been happening? How long have I been so utterly unaware of myself?

William has said it so many times, and now I know that he is right: I _am_ an idiot.

_And yet._

Again these words!

There is something about it that is sickeningly satisfying. A greedy feeling, almost. That I might be capable of experiencing what it is that so many humans seem to pine for.

My stride has picked up its speed as my thoughts thunder onward. I pass by a storefront littered with hearts in an assortment of sizes and colors.

I wonder… What would it be like to follow the tradition of Valentine’s Day as humans do? To give gifts and appreciation to those who matter… Would it be interesting?

It certainly sounds fascinating. A nice twist on the mundane passing of time.

I decide to humor myself—revel in this new discovery of mine and entertain one or two foolish ideas.

After all, why not?

If I were to give someone like William T. Spears something, what would it be?

Would chocolate suffice? If I recall, this is a common choice for celebrators of Valentine’s Day.

At times, William seems to enjoy sweets, but I can’t imagine that would mean much to him as a gift.

Then perhaps he would appreciate a poem? Another popular option.

Well, no. Likely not. Too soppy for his tastes, I’m sure. In fact, he is not very sentimental at all.

But then an image—an old memory—returns to me. (How could I ever have forgotten?)

A bouquet of flowers.

Decades ago, back when I had still been serving a certain young Earl, I had once given William a bouquet during one of my episodes of mischief. Oh, the way he had blushed and chided when he’d received it! And yet he’d keep the flowers in a vase in his home for as long as he could—until they’d completely darkened and withered.

Perhaps, then, if he had appreciated the gesture of a bouquet so greatly, it would mean something to him to receive another.

Of course, if I were to do that, it wouldn’t be just _any_ arrangement of flowers. Decades ago, it was common knowledge that flowers could be used to convey messages—and emotions. Type, color, and placement all had a purpose in this process. Therefore, if I were to gift someone like William a bouquet, I would certainly utilize the language of flowers to create something unique and clever. Something worth such an intelligent man’s time.

Variegated tulips to represent his eyes—how they shine and seem to speak. Moonflowers for his sharp silhouette carved by the moon, like on the night that we met. Lilies for his countless displays of elegance, but gladiolus flowers for his strength.

And red roses throughout it all to set the mood.

Ah, I can see it vividly in my mind, down to the arrangement of each flower.

But of course, I tell myself, all of this is theoretical.

And yet before I even realize it, I am in Italy searching for their freshest roses.

~

I do not return from my travels until it is evening in London.

I was successful in my search for flowers and have bound them together with a chiffon ribbon to create a stylish bouquet. However, I know that this unexpected errand has made me tardy, so I do not make any other stops on my way back. I return directly to where William expects me: his house in the Reapers’ Realm. (It has become much like a home for me. At the very least, it is the place where I stay when William is not in need of my assistance with his collections.)

Just as we have been doing for the past handful of decades, I have left a portal open for myself to access the Reapers’ Realm, hidden away in a place that only I would think to visit; a hidden alcove atop Big Ben.

This is how I make my way to William’s doorstep.

I have my hand on the doorknob when a cold, unpleasant doubt drops into my gut and begins to coil within me like a malevolent serpent. I stop dead in my tracks.

What if I am making an immense mistake?

A slew of thoughts abduct my mind—and none of them are reassuring.

Perhaps it is a mistake to imagine that William would have ties to this holiday. He is an anomaly among reapers. Most of the reaper population consists of humans who’d committed suicide, but William was born a reaper—had never once been mortal. William had told me that this is a rare occurrence among reapers because it contradicts their nature as Death to reproduce.

It is possible Valentine’s Day means something to the reapers who had once been human and had been mortal when the holiday became popular. But William? I’ve never heard him speak of it.

And maybe worst of all: I might just be doing what I have been trying to avoid since the beginning of our alliance.

I might just be betraying William’s trust.

The bouquet of last time had been a gesture of friendship (more or less). But this one is different—a bouquet with deeper connotations. And the current holiday makes the message near-impossible to misconstrue. I am not sure if William will accept this one as he did the other. And it frightens me.

For all I know, this action of mine could birth the rift that ultimately separates us.

I curse myself ( _Foolish! Foolish!_ ) for not thinking of these issues sooner because now—now it is too late to turn back.

If I spend any more time outside attempting to dispose of the bouquet, I might be spotted by a passing reaper, and that would be incredibly dangerous for both me and William. So with the bouquet grasped tightly in one hand behind my back and the doorknob and the bag of coffee in the other, I step inside.

I will attempt to do away with the flowers when I have the chance.

As soon as I enter, my eyes find William. I can see him easily from the entryway, standing at the kitchen stove.

He has removed his suit jacket, which gives me a pleasant view of the way his waistcoat hugs his torso. The sleeves of his dress shirt, also, have been rolled up, so that he does not dirty them while cooking, and I find myself lost for a moment in how pleasant he looks. He stirs at a pot that smells like vegetable stew, and his glasses have fogged over a little from the steam that rises from it.

William does not look up from his cooking, but he has obviously heard my entrance because he speaks.

“There you are. I was beginning to wonder where you’d gone off to.”

The familiar, proper voice soothes me into forgetting my worries for a time—if only a brief one—and makes it easier for my normal smile to return to my face.

“I’ve the coffee you wanted,” I say smoothly, giving the bag a small, exhibitory shake.

William adds what looks like a pinch of salt to the steaming pot. “I would certainly hope so, considering how long you’ve been out.”

Then finally, his gaze lands on me.

With a single glance from those intense, yellow-green eyes, he seems to have disassembled, analyzed, and reassembled every fiber of my being.

I flinch and hold the bouquet behind my back a little tighter.

William tilts his head in a way that is both casual and elegant, and one of his dark eyebrows rises questioningly. “You have something there, don’t you? Behind your back?”

Startled, I stumble for an answer. “It’s… nothing, really.” I almost wince at my own inarticulacy. 

How had I honestly expected to get this past him? We’ve known each other for years; I have learned his habits, expressions, flaws—and he mine! I should have seen this coming!

I hope that my relaxed smile has held steady under those appraising eyes, but it is beginning to feel forced.

“Nothing? Come now.” William shuts off the flame and neatly places a lid upon the pot, all the while still gazing at me. “For a demon with a silver tongue, you certainly are bad at hiding things from me. Let me see.”

I try desperately to think of a reason to not reveal the bouquet that I hide. Something—anything at all! But any half-baked thoughts that come to mind— _not for you; it’s a secret; it’s honestly nothing but a joke I swear_ —get stuck in my throat.

The bouquet feels heavier than it did before—an uncomfortable weight in my fist. What was I thinking? I should never have done this—should never have gotten myself into this situation.

Well. It seems there is nothing else for it. No other options…

Silently steeling myself, I clench my jaw, kick off my shoes next to William’s in the entryway, and join the man himself in the kitchen.

Then I reveal the bouquet behind my back.

I hold it out to him.

He takes it.

He stares at me and doesn’t say anything.

The silence feels heavy and uncomfortable. Weakly, I say, “I do not quite understand it, but I’ve heard that on this day, humans like to celebrate love in honor of a certain dead man so I thought I’d give you flowers.”

William squints in a mildly amused way, and the corners of his soft mouth twitch slightly. He hums in acknowledgement of my dry humor, but he gives no indication of his feelings for what is essentially my proclamation of affection.

His emerald eyes turn to the bouquet. And suddenly there’s that look of intrigue in them. So stunning. I have always loved it. I can almost see the thoughts churning behind his eyes as he studies the flowers, turning them about, inspecting them at different angles.

A good sign?

I endeavor to keep still, but my fingers begin to move, tapping against my thigh as if of their own accord.

William gives a soft, thoughtful noise and gently touches the petals of a moonflower. “Morning-glories, hm?” His fingers brush across each flower as he names them. “And tulips, lilies, gladioli, roses...” He goes quiet for a time. And finally, after perhaps some of the longest minutes in my immortal life—William looks back at me. There’s a softness in his gaze I do not expect.

“Thank you.”

I reel at these simple words because while they pass easily out of the mouths of others, they are rare and valuable from William’s.

He only says it if he means it.

I feel the tension in my body easing, and I release a small sigh. This went well, then, all things considered. Smiling feels natural again. I set the bag of coffee down next to the stove and lean against the counter to relax. “You’re welcome—”

“Coincidentally,” he adds, surprising me. He’s looking down at the bouquet instead of at me. “It seems we were of like mind today.” Without any further explanation, he turns away from me and heads toward his bedroom. “I will return shortly.”

He leaves my line of sight, and I find that I can only blink confusedly in the direction that he has gone. What on Earth is going on now?

Not much later, William returns holding a red box against his hip. Gently handling both the bouquet and the box, he shifts the latter to his hands and sets it on the counter before me so that I may examine it. His voice is a murmur, as if he lacks confidence in the words he speaks. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” Taking a step back, he tugs at the crisp collar of his dress shirt.

I look at the box, rather unsure what to think. A ribbon of white lace is wrapped around it, holding it shut, and—oddly enough—there are visible holes in the lid. Quite a few of them, but none of them large enough to see through.

With a puzzled purse of my lips, I pick up the gift.

It surprises me how light it is. In fact, it appears to weigh even less than the bouquet that William now holds. (He is fiddling with the chiffon ribbon as he watches me; I can see as much in my peripheral vision.)

I’ve never experienced anything quite like this before.

I run my fingers over one of the holes, attempting to determine its reason for being there. It is perfectly circular—as are the others that accompany it—and they are evenly spaced, as if they were cut into the box intentionally. Perhaps by a machine—

The box shifts of its own accord, and from within I hear the smallest, most delicate of mewls.

I go rigid, a surge of exhilaration passing through me from head to toe.

Oh, I would be a fool to not recognize _that_ sound.

Without a second thought, I rip away the ribbon and the lid—and there—there in the box!

_A kitten._

Warm, smoky grey fur that darkens subtly at the tail and ears. And beautiful, deep eyes of pale teal.

A Russian Blue.

Joy flows through me—overwhelms me—in a way I can hardly describe, and I only just stop myself from making a rather undignified noise.

What a lovely animal! Perhaps one of the loveliest I have ever borne witness to!

This magnificent creature has been prepared for this gift with the utmost care—groomed to perfection, accessorized with a pink bow around its neck, and nestled in a downy, white blanket to keep it comfortable.

Careful not to jostle it too much, I lower the box back to the counter, and I scoop up the young cat with reverent hands, exposing the fluffy underbelly.

A girl.

She is so small that she fits perfectly within my grasp. And her fur is so soft between my fingers—softer even than the satin bow wrapped with care around her elegant neck. Her nose is adorably heart-shaped, and her tiny paw pads are pink and dainty like flower petals.

My excitement causes me to choke on my words. I can narrowly speak, but I say what I can, even when my voice wavers and takes on a slightly higher register than usual. “Oh my, look at you! Such a lovely creature! And how fortunate I am to receive you!” I tuck her into the crook of my arm and stroke her soft cheek. 

She closes her small eyes and seems to smile. It causes my grin to widen even further.

“A wonderful, blessed gift!”

William stares at the bouquet still in his hands. “I had a feeling you would appreciate her. You never seem to stop talking about cats—”

As if of its own volition, my hand free of kitten grabs him by the knot of his tie—and I kiss him fully on the lips.

I feel him jolt at my touch—

With a flood of realization, I lunge away, mortified by my own actions. And for a long few moments, I can only stare at my ally’s surprised face. “Please forgive me, William,” I breathe out hesitantly. “I shouldn’t have—”

Deftly—like all his movements are—William’s hand finds the back of my neck, and he drags me in again without a word.

For a moment, I stare at William’s face so close to mine, but when I realize what this means—he chose to do this! This is what he wants!—I close my eyes and appreciate the feeling of William’s lips against my own.

They are soft, as I expected them to be due to their shape, but—befitting of his nature—William’s use of them is swift and confident.

I remember the second time I had come across this reaper now standing before me and how I had fantasized about what it would be like to travel at his side.

I wonder what my past self would have thought of _this_.

Too soon, he separates from me.

I take this as a cue to open my eyes, and I open them to find him staring into me. His own eyes—outstanding and powerful—shine from an unknown light source, and there’s a hint of something familiar in them. Amusement?

William quirks an eyebrow—his version of a smirk. And his voice is low and pleasant like distant rainfall. “I’d wondered when you would find the gall to kiss me.” His hand travels from the back of my neck to my jaw, and his thumb glides once, twice, over my cheek.

A grin springs to my face, and a chuckle escapes from between my lips. I lean into William’s palm to savor the feeling of his touch. “The gall, hm? Such a choice in words. You act as if I have offended you and yet your actions tell me otherwise.”

William blushes and pinches my cheek admonishingly, but there’s some lightheartedness in it. “Honestly. Don’t be an imp.”

I snicker.

A chipper squeak from the kitten interrupts us, and we look down at the fluffy creature still cradled in my arm. She is pawing curiously at one of the bouquet’s roses, which has drawn close to her during our kiss.

Upon noticing this, William pulls the flowers from her reach—almost possessively.

Admittedly, I feel some pride rising in my chest at the action, and I have to resist the urge to comment.

William’s mouth is a tight, slanted line, but he’s squinting in amusement again—down at the kitten.

“What are your thoughts on the name ‘Rosie’? After all, this little troublemaker appears to rather admire the flowers.” He looks up at me dubiously. “Perhaps it is cliché?

I can’t help myself but chuckle. “It is, and I adore it.”


End file.
